Don't get any on you.

January 06, 2008

4:20 p.m. San Francisco Train, 1/5/2008

As we stand waiting for the train's arrival she pulls away from his kisses, which are short pecks at her mouth and cheeks, though she is clearly enjoying his lips on her. The wind has smacked bright pink onto her pretty, pale skin. A white scarf is wrapped around her neck.

His eyes are wide when he moves in to kiss her. He has her hands locked in his, their fingers entwined. His grip on her fists is tight; his fingertips press deep into her flesh. The lines he makes with his face might be mistaken for anger, but she recognizes it as lust.

She rocks back on her heels, never kissing him with as much vigor as he wants, but each time she tips her body backwards she brings her hips back a little closer to his.

On the train a pretty girl with messy hair swept up into a barrette tries to balance a large bouquet of flowers - lilies, daisies and roses - between her feet. When the car lunges forward so does she to keep the large glass vase from tipping over. She soon gives up and puts the flowers in the empty seat beside her. The cut blooms look several days old, as if the bouquet found her early in the week, and she is just now taking them home. She is fresh faced and thin, and she seems very nice. But the flowers do not seem to make her happy. Her face droops like the browning petals beside her.